


Elementary

by do_not_tumble_dry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Multi, give it a whirl girl, honestly idk where this is gonna go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 14:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18693337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/do_not_tumble_dry/pseuds/do_not_tumble_dry
Summary: Grace is back in London after several years away, trying to ignore relatively recent past events, as well as possessing the curious ability to piss almost anyone off. She's just trying to catch up with her brother, and things snowball from there.





	Elementary

**Author's Note:**

> So hi everyone! I'm not really experienced in writing fanfiction (I love to read it though!), but hey, first time for everything. I'm not really sure where this will go but I'm endeavoring to update weekly, or at the very least, fortnightly- however often I update, it will still be more regular than seasons of Sherlock. Please read and review, let me know what y'all think!

I spun gently on the wheelie chair and helped myself to another chocolate from the box on the desk, checking my watch. The sky outside was grey and threatened to pour at any second. The blinds on the glass walls were down, so I could only see a people’s feet as they walked by – purple sneakers with blue laces, black dress shoes, beige kitten heels.  
Suddenly the door of the office was flung open, but the figure in the doorway stopped short upon seeing me. “What the-”  
“Did you dye your hair grey?” I asked him incredulously.  
Greg looked at me, speechless. I looked back. The silence became awkward.  
“Sorry, I just helped myself to the chocolates, I was hungry,” I reached over to pick up the sticky note that had been attached to the box, “They were from a Mr Jim M. Ring any bells to you? There’s still half the box left, if you want them. Also, just so you know, I found three packets of cigarettes in the second draw down and chucked them out. They’ll kill you, you know.”  
Greg stayed silent.  
“I heard you were back.” He said, eventually, hanging his coat on the hook by the door. “How’ve you been?”  
“Still got the whole “seeing things that aren’t there” thing going on,” I admitted, getting up from the chair and sitting on one of the more boring chairs, on the other side of the desk. “And the country was nice – got to milk the cows again, so that’s good – but man, I don’t remember the older ladies gossiping quite as much. Especially Mrs Glenferrie, you know, the one who runs the post office? Rumours flying about me!” I laughed. “But you- Detective Inspector now! How are you?”  
“Yeah, I- I’m good,” He said, sitting down in the seat I had just vacated. He shuffled the paperwork on his desk, looking for something.  
“The empty case report forms are in the top drawer, underneath the stapler.” I reminded him. He found them and picked up a pen, then looked back at me.   
“Where’re you staying?”  
“Currently? Cheap motel nearby. But I’ve been looking for an apartment, in fact after this I’m meeting a potential landlord- landlady. Don’t worry, I’m not staying with you. I swung past your apartment on the way here and it’s barely big enough for you, let alone two people. By the way, how’s the wife? Still estranged?”  
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a reminder I’d set – in half an hour, I had to be at the apartment. Greg made a noncommittal noise and continued filling out the form.   
“Gotta go, Greg, hope you solve those “serial suicides”!” I got up and picked up my coat, “Mind you, “serial suicides” – stupid name. Suicides can’t be serial, but murders can.” He stayed silent, watching me. “You’re thinking.” I exclaimed, “Man, you have changed since I’ve been gone.”  
“Yeah, I’m thinking I’ve got an acquaintance I never want you to meet,” He said as he stood, ignoring my jab, “Tell you what, I’m on break at five this afternoon, we can get a drink or something, yeah?”   
I agreed quickly, pulling on my jacket. I grabbed the half-empty box of chocolates on my way out, and stuck them in my bag.

It didn’t take long to get where I needed to go, thanks to the tube. Looking at the numbers on doors, I found myself at 221B Baker Street. Somewhat apprehensively, I knocked on the door. I’d thought this apartment would be good- it was conveniently located and cheap, but if I got it I’d have at least one flatmate. Just don’t act too weird, I told myself. I’d definitely remembered to take my medication this morning. The door was opened by a small, middle-aged woman, who instantly smiled when she saw me.   
“You must be Grace? I’m Mrs Hudson, come in dear-” She ushered me inside. After being forced by Mrs Hudson to drink a cup of tea and eat a few biscuits ("You're too skinny, it's like you've put too much effort into growing upwards!"), she asked me a few questions about myself, then led me up a flight of stairs. “This is the main living area, dear, there’s a bedroom down the hall that has already been rented. Bit of an odd fellow, but very good at what he does- detective, you know.” She told me. The apartment was nice, if a bit cluttered, but that could be organised, I thought to myself. “There’s two bedrooms upstairs, and you’ll have one, maybe two flatmates- they might only need one room, though!” She whispered loudly. The apartment was amazing, and well within my price range, especially if the rent was split between three people. I smiled at Mrs Hudson.  
“I’ll take it!”  
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….  
I waited at the bar, sipping my drink while I waited for Greg. It was usual for him to be late, so I never bothered to arrive early when I met him, but now he was over half an hour late. It was starting to look sad, me alone at the bar. Just as I had this thought, my phone rang. I didn’t know why I was even surprised. I answered the call.  
“Let me guess, something’s come up.” I said as I stood, putting on my jacket and finishing my drink.  
“Yeah,” he said, sounding apologetic, “And it’s something we might need your help with.”  
“Another suicide?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.   
“Yeah, well… there’s a note this time. Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”  
“Give me five minutes.”  
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….  
When I arrived at the scene, officers swarmed around the place, putting up police tape and photographing evidence. I ducked under the tape and a woman with dark curly hair moved to stop me, before she saw who I was.  
“Ah, you’re back then.” She said, eyeing me. We had an uneasy relationship – we were mostly civil to each other, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call us “friends”.   
“Missed you too, Sally.” I told her, pasting a pleasant smile on my face. “Tell me, where’s Anderson? You two seem to have grown awfully close since I’ve been gone.” I observed, raising an eyebrow. It may have just been the lights from a nearby police car, but I’m fairly sure she blushed. Before she could respond, Greg walked out the door and grabbed my arm, pulling me into the building.  
“Every time. Every time, I tell you not to do that, and what do you do?” He asked me, letting go of my arm and leading the way up the stairs.  
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, you’ll have to be a bit more specific.” I said innocently, following him onto the first landing. Greg handed me a blue paper suit to put on.  
“You know, the thing. It pisses her off.”  
“Well, she pisses me off.” I reasoned, as Greg once again lead the way up four flights of stairs.   
“Yeah, but you’re not the one who has to deal with her in the aftermath.” He argued back as we reached the top of the landing, and he stopped in front of a door.  
“How bad can she really be- “Oh no, Detective Inspector, Grace figured out that I’m having a secret affair with my co-worker, who’s also a married man! It’s not like I was being really damn obvious about it!”” I mocked in a high-pitched accent. The door behind Greg opened to reveal a dark-haired man with a camera. “Ah, speaking of, how goes it, Anderson?”  
Anderson’s head snapped up fast enough to give himself whiplash. “What are you doing here- what is she doing here?” He directed the latter towards Greg, ignoring the sudden buzzing from his pocket.  
“Just here to help, Anderson, you know how good I am,” I told him breezily, stepping around him so I was closer to the door, and at the same time I held my hand out for the camera, which he reluctantly handed over. “If you don’t want me here, you can stick it in your juice box and suck it- Are you gonna get that?” I asked him suddenly, motioning to his pocket. He pulled out the phone and I saw the name “Lisa” on the caller ID.   
“Better not keep your wife waiting, she might think you're having an affair!” I called to him as I turned and walked into the room, bending over the camera. Greg followed me in, and I followed him in my peripheral vision as I focused on the images of the crime scene on the small screen. “Managed to get a flat,” I told Greg, without looking up, “It’s nice, middle of London, really cheap. Got two flatmates- haven’t met them yet.” I put the camera down, too late to see his reaction to the news.  
“Who found her?” I asked Greg, who was talking to the only other officer in the room, halfway out the door. I examined the room- empty and derelict like the rest of the house, except for a dirty mirror in the corner. I automatically checked myself- clothes straight, my brown hair neatly tucked into a bun due to years of practice, standing straight.  
“A couple of kids, from the next building, they were poking around.” He said, walking over to the body. I followed him and crouched over it.  
“Are they ok? Death’s not a very pleasant thing to see when you’re young.” I said absently. I bent over one of her hands, examining it and more interestingly, the “Rache” scratched into the wooden floor. “Cause of death is the same as the others? Name? What’ve you got?”  
Greg straightened. “Name’s Jennifer Wilson- got that from her credit card, cause of death appears to be the same as all the others, as a result of self-ingested poison.”  
“Oh, now that’s interesting,” I breathed, still looking over the body, “Self-ingested poison- suicide, but in exactly the same way as four others. Not to mention the fact that there are nicer ways to go- asphyxiation isn’t pleasant.” The radio on Greg’s belt chirped and crackled, and Donovan said, “Freak’s here, bringing him in”. The words hung in the silent room, and I looked at Greg with raised eyebrows. “Who’s Freak?”  
“Remember that friend I said I never wanted you to meet?” Greg sighed. “You’re about to meet him. You coming?” He asked as he made him way to the door.  
“No thanks, I’m going to stay here, if that’s alright.” He shrugged and made him way downstairs. I sat back on my heels and closed my eyes, sorting out the information I’d just taken in, categorising it and fitting it together. My eyes snapped open and I pulled out my phone.  
I heard footsteps and voices on the landing outside and I slipped my phone back into my pocket and quickly stood as the door opened.  
A tall man with dark unruly hair burst into the room, followed by a smaller man with a limp and a cane, and Greg, trailing behind. I looked at the taller man, and he glanced at me.  
“Who’s this?” He asked Greg shortly. My eyes narrowed.  
“I'm Grace." I said sharply, "Who’re you?”  
“Sherlock Holmes.”   
He bent over to look at Jennifer Wilson’s body. I focused on the guy- Sherlock, and the smaller man who’d not been introduced, trying to figure out as much as I could. I stepped back from the body and walked over to Greg, standing with my hands behind my back as I watched Sherlock examine the body.   
“Shut up.” Sherlock said over his shoulder at Greg.  
“I didn’t say anything!” He protested.  
“You were thinking. It’s annoying.” Sherlock replied. I glanced at Greg, who rolled his eyes at me, then I turned to the smaller man.  
“We haven’t met. Who are you?” I asked him, in some small effort to spite Sherlock. He’d been in the army, from what I could see, returned home due to injury, probably something to do with his arm. He had a limp, but no major injury from what I could see- mental injury then, I supposed. Internally, I chuckled. I could relate.  
“Dr John Watson.” He said, shaking my hand. He seemed as every bit polite as Sherlock was rude.   
“Pleased to meet you. Do you work with him?” I asked curiously. The man- John Watson- was ex-army, but I couldn’t get a read on what he did now.  
“I’m just his flatmate.” John said. Interesting… Sherlock didn’t seem like the type to pick up strays. As if he heard my thoughts, Sherlock stood.  
“Got anything?” Greg asked from my left.  
“Not much.” Sherlock said shortly, pulling out his phone. Floorboards creaked as Anderson came to stand in the doorway.  
“She’s German,” He told us, leaning against the frame. He gestured to the word scratched into the floor- “Rache. German for revenge, she was trying to tell us something.”  
I looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and pain on my face. “No, Anderson.” I said in a voice pained by his stupidity, just as Sherlock said, “Thank you for your input.” and promptly closed the door in Anderson’s face, without looking up. Next to me, Greg shifted on his feet.  
“She’s German.” He repeated. Sherlock looked at him.   
“Of course she’s not German. She is from out of town though- planned to spend a single night in London, then return home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious.” He finished, looking at each of us in turn. I nodded in agreement- everything he said seemed about right so far. He looked at me intently.  
“Sorry, obvious?” John asked, bewildered.  
Greg gave a long-suffering sigh. “What about the message though?”   
Sherlock turned to John and ignored Greg completely. “Dr Watson, what do you think?”  
“Of the message?” John asked, confused. I piped up.  
“Of the body. You’re a doctor, an army doctor- care to examine the body?” I asked, watching him closely.   
“Now look, we have a whole team outside-” Greg interrupted before John could respond. Rolling my eyes, I turned around the face Greg, smiling sweetly.  
“And why would you call in a whole team when you’ve already got three people who could solve the case in one room?” I asked.   
“I’m breaking every rule letting him in here,” Greg persisted, gesturing to Sherlock, “And only slightly less for you!”  
“And we love you all the more for it,” I told him warmly, tapping his cheek then turning back to the body.   
Sherlock gestured to the body. “Doctor Watson?” The two of them crouched over the body and I studied them carefully, searching for information. They held a quick, whispered conversation.  
“Asphyxiation, probably.” John spoke up, “Passed out, choked on her own vomit- can’t smell any alcohol on her, could’ve been a seizure, possibly drugs.” Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but I beat him to it.  
“Oh please, surely you’ve read the papers, seen the news. You know why she died.”  
John sat back on his heels. “She’s one of the suicides, the fourth one.”  
Greg cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Sherlock, I said two minutes. We need everything you’ve got.” I leant against the wall, waiting to see what this guy who seemed to have such a high opinion of himself had found.  
“Victim is in her late forties, a professional person going by her clothes- I’d guess something in media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. She travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay for one night- that’s obvious from the size of her suitcase-”  
Greg interrupted him, confused. “Sorry, suitcase?” I was confused too; I’d gotten everything up until the suitcase, and I hadn’t seen any evidence to support the claim.  
“Suitcase, yes,” Sherlock said sharply, before continuing. “She’s been married for at least ten years, but not happily- she’s had a string of lovers, none of which knew she was married-”  
“Oh for God’s sake,” Greg interrupted him again, “If you’re just making this up…”  
“No, most of that’s right,” I jumped in, stepping forward to the body and pointing out her left hand, “Her wedding ring, see? The rest of her jewellery is spotless and shiny, regularly cleaned, but her ring? Dirty, probably never been cleaned- shows how her marriage was going. But, the outsides of both her wedding and engagement rings are dirtier that the inside, meaning they were removed quite regularly, and the friction of removing them polished the inside of the ring. She doesn’t take them off for work, she’s in media and anyway, her nails are long, coloured, and difficult to do manual work with. Ergo, she takes them off for a lover, or lovers- she wouldn’t be able to keep the charade of her being single going for long, which lends itself to the assumption that there are multiple.” I finished, looking at Greg.  
“Boy, I really didn’t miss that when you were away.” He muttered. I then glanced at Sherlock, whose expression was difficult to read as he studied me.  
“Brilliant!”   
We all turned to look at John. “Sorry.” He muttered.  
“Cardiff?” Greg asked resignedly, crossing his arms.   
“Obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked, looking around at us with his gaze finally coming to rest on me. I raised my eyebrows.  
John spoke for himself and Greg; “Not to me.”  
Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. “Dear god, what’s it like in your funny little brains. It must be so boring. It’s her coat, look.”  
I grinned, giving into the hunt, as I walked around and crouched next to the body, opposite to Sherlock. “It’s somewhat wet, even after being, you know, dead in an abandoned building for a while. So, she’s been in a heavy downpour recently, within the past few hours, which there hasn’t been anywhere in the London area. Also, there’s water under the collar of her coat, therefore she must have turned it up against the wind, even though she’s got an umbrella-”  
“But it’s dry, unused- wind that’s too strong to use an umbrella in.” Sherlock cut me off, glancing at me over his shoulder with one corner of his mouth quirked up. So the bastard did it on purpose. Interesting. I turned my attention back to his words as I sat back on my heels and crossed my arms.  
“…know from her suitcase that she’s here for the night, so she must have come a decent distance- but, not more than two or three hours, ‘cause her coat hasn’t dried. So where has there been heavy rain and strong winds in the radius of the travel time?” He looked back at me, gesturing for me to complete the sentence.  
“Cardiff,” I told Greg and John, standing up.  
“Fantastic!” John exclaimed again. We all turned to him, again.  
“Do you know you’re doing that out loud?” I asked him, lifting my eyebrows.  
John looked down. “Sorry, I’ll shut up.”  
“No, it’s fine…” Sherlock said, turning back to Jennifer Wilson’s body. Likes to be admired, could possibly be manipulated in this way, I made a mental note.  
Greg cleared his throat and ran his hand through his hair. “Why do you keep saying suitcase?”  
“Yeah, where is it?” Sherlock asked, “She’d have a phone or an organiser, we can find out who Rachel is.”  
“So she was writing Rachel?”   
“No,” I said sarcastically, “She was writing one last angry note in German, as most British people are wont to do in their dying moment- yes, she was writing Rachel. By German or no, why would she write out Rachel when she was dying?”  
“But how do you know she had a case?” Greg demanded at Sherlock, ignoring me completely.   
“On the back of her right leg there are tiny splashes on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her, with her right hand – no other way to get that splash pattern. A small case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious - could only be an overnight bag. So she was staying one night. Now where is it - what have you done with it?” Sherlock asked.  
I walked back over to stand between Greg and John as Greg threw his hands up in exasperation. “There wasn’t a case, though.”  
Sherlock looked up from the body so fast I thought he’s break his neck. Before any of us had really processed that he’d left, he was out the door and shouting at the officers below.  
“Suitcase! Suitcase, anyone found a suitcase here?”  
We followed him out. “There was no suitcase, Sherlock,” Greg told him again.   
“But they take the poison themselves,” Sherlock muttered, turning around, “They chew, swallow the pills themselves, there are clear signs, even you lot couldn’t miss them…”  
I scoffed as Greg replied, disgruntled, “Yeah, right, thanks, and?”  
“It’s murder. All of them. They’re not suicides, they’re killings, I don’t know how… We’ve got a serial killer, love those. Always something to look forward to…”  
“What? Why are you saying that?” Greg prodded. I inhaled sharply- I’d finally cottoned on to what Sherlock was getting at.  
“Her case, where is it? She sure as hell didn’t eat it- someone else was here, the killer. They must have taken her suitcase; after they drove her here, he realised the case was still in the car-”  
“Maybe… she checked into her hotel, left her case there?” John suggested, breaking me off.   
Sherlock scoffed at the suggestion. “She never made it to the hotel- look at her hair, she colour co-ordinated her lipstick with her shoes, she’d never leave a hotel with her hair looking like that-”  
“Well, I mean, she has been murdered,” I pointed out.   
Sherlock froze. He slapped his hands to his head and without a word, turned and leapt down the stairs. We peered over the banister, watching him.  
“What?” Greg shouted to him, “What is it?”  
Sherlock paused and shouted back up to us, “Serial killer’s always hard, got to wait for a mistake-”  
“We can’t just wait!” Greg protested.  
“Oh no, we’re done waiting- look at the body! Houston, we have a mistake! Get onto Cardiff, find her family and friends- find Rachel!”   
John and I looked back at the room, bare except for the body, a beacon of pink in the grey, dreary room. I scanned it for anything out of the ordinary.  
“Yeah, but what’s the mistake?” Greg asked, still hanging over the banister.  
“Pink” Sherlock yelled as he practically flew down the stairs, leaving John, Greg and I up on the landing. We looked at each other, with what do to now expressions, and John mumbled something and followed Sherlock’s example, albeit at a slower pace as he limped down the stairs. 

As John left, I exhaled, holding my hands behind my head. “Am I as annoying as him?” I asked Greg. He gave a small, expressionless laugh in response.  
“No one’s as annoying as Sherlock.”  
I hummed in response as we made our way down the stairs. “So, a suitcase…”  
“Didn’t get that, did you? You must be out of practice.”  
“Yes, well,” I said lightly, “Not much to analyse in the English countryside but cows and old women. I’m off then, going to move my stuff to the new place, call if anything, I mean anything, regardless of how small, happens.” I told him as I pulled my coat tighter around me and turned to the door.  
“Yep, and uh, hope the new place goes well!” Greg called after me, his words faint in the breeze that rushed over me as I stepped outside. I gave a vague gesture over my shoulder that could be considered a wave.   
Outside, I saw John talking with Sally, then limping off down the road. I liked him, I’d decided. Birds of a feather, and all that.  
Once out of the way of the door and the plethora of officers swarming in and out of the building, I pulled out my phone. Still looking down at my phone I walked slowly in the vague direction of the tube station, not really paying attention to where I was going, until-  
“Watch out, Peaches,” Sally snapped at me, as I walked into her. My head shot up.  
“Oops, sorry Sally!” I said with sarcastic enthusiasm. She gave me a dark look in reply. “I’m just going, so I’ll see you tomorrow. Will you be carpooling with Anderson?” I laughed, as I took off down the street towards the tube. I bowed my head against the strong wind, and her response, if it even came, was lost behind me.


End file.
